


What Comes of Grief

by stingrae90



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Sherlock Minibang, series 3 spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-31
Updated: 2013-12-31
Packaged: 2018-01-06 21:17:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1111621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stingrae90/pseuds/stingrae90
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the wake of Sherlock's death, John's friends close ranks to protect him. Maybe something good can come of that horrible day after all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the Sherlock MiniBang challenge, and let me say, I have the most patient artist ever, who put up with various delays and late night emails and just under the deadline finishes. Leigh, you rock. 
> 
> Did I mention she's talented? I LOVE the art she did for this. Go, be in awe of the awesome.
> 
> http://residentbunburyist.tumblr.com/post/71762948130/what-comes-of-grief-by-spaingal-for-the
> 
> Vague spoilers for series 3 inherent in the story itself. I don't imagine this will be relevant for much longer, but if you haven't been following them, be warned. Nothing especially overt, but they're there.

It wasn’t difficult to see the numerous advantages being dead gave him. It was a bit inconvenient, having to go everywhere in disguise lest he be recognized, but the benefits… _oh,_ the benefits.

His “death” was only to have been a last resort, a blind so that Moriarty could be tricked into believing himself the victor of their extensive chess game. With Moriarty’s check though, it had become the only ready means of saving John’s life. Of saving Mrs. Hudson’s and Lestrade’s. The stakes had suddenly become distressingly _real_ in a way they hadn’t for anything that led up to that rooftop gamble. He hadn’t doubted that there were snipers on all three of them. It would be frighteningly easy to get to Mrs. Hudson; Baker Street was only as secure as Sherlock’s reputation made it. Paid assassins wouldn’t care what hell Sherlock could reign down on them. The idiots at the Yard wouldn’t know an assassin even if one walked up to them wearing a sign proclaiming his profession. They could hardly recognize the work of common criminals. So even within the Yard itself, Lestrade could hardly be counted as safe.

And John…oh, once John figured out that Mrs. Hudson had not in fact been shot…well. He would be coming back for Sherlock. The man might be slower on the uptake than Sherlock – and _everyone_ was – but he was still sharper than most everyone else Sherlock knew. John would figure out that Sherlock had sent him away on purpose, and being the loyal man he was, his flatmate would be coming to provide backup. (And more yelling, likely, about the _not good_ -ness of arranging it to seem as if your landlady had been shot just to get rid of someone.) And that very loyalty would make him the easiest target of all. Out in the open, or in a taxi…Sherlock shut down any analysis of how _many_ fatal accidents could be arranged with the sort of notice the snipers _must_ have been given.

No, the only surprise was that John had gotten back so quickly. He must have turned right around after seeing Mrs. Hudson whole and hale. Sherlock supposed he might even have hailed down the same cab he arrived in before it had gotten too far away. John Watson on a mission was not to be underestimated.

He hadn’t expected to lose that round to Moriarty, but he had planned for it. It was impossible to play the Game if one didn’t account for the possibility of loss; what was more important, though, was that it was a fatalistic lack of foresight. Not every battle _had_ to be won – though it was certainly more satisfying when they were. The only battle that truly mattered was the final one. The victor who triumphed in that last battle, well, he won the war, didn’t he?

Sherlock had yet to lose a war, and he didn’t plan on starting now.

This battle couldn’t be called a win for either side. Not conclusively. Moriarty _had_ forced Sherlock off the roof, even gotten him to voice the hated words – _I’m a fake, John._ – but he hadn’t succeeded in actually killing Sherlock. Sherlock himself had succeeded in saving all three of the lives that mattered most to him, but he had been forced to do so in a manner that left him legally dead.

Sherlock wasn’t going to risk John’s life, Mrs. Hudson’s life, Lestrade’s life, by coming back until he knew it was safe for them. That shouldn’t take very long. Verifying that the assassins had left the country would be easy enough, even with the low profile he had to maintain for the moment. As soon as he had confirmation that they had moved onto other assignments and had no intentions of reneging on the deal for their most recent contracts – which they shouldn’t. It wasn’t likely they’d get paid now, with Moriarty dead, even if they did carry out the hits. – he could make his comeback.

Restoring his reputation would be tedious, but it could be done. Perhaps he’d let Mycroft do that bit. That sort of bureaucratic nonsense _was_ his preferred method of control.

\--

John Watson watched the hearse pull away, bearing his best friend’s body to the cemetery, and knew he couldn’t follow. Vaguely, he knew he made his excuses to Mrs. Hudson, but all he truly remembered was ducking into the funeral home again, and then out the back through a door most likely meant for supply deliveries, trying to simultaneously ignore and follow the phantom voice that murmured advice to him.

 _“A suit is conspicuous, but people don’t_ observe. _Simply remove the jacket, unbutton a few of the top fastenings of the shirt, roll up the sleeves. Muss your hair a bit – no, not quite that much, you aren’t trying to look like a beggar,_ really – _yes, there. Now you’re simply a businessman finally off the clock, too tired to wait to arrive home to get rid of the uniform you despise. The average person doesn’t_ see _the difference between business and formal.”_

A sob choked in his throat, and John nearly threw his suit jacket into the first bin he passed.

It would have taken too much effort to actually do it, and he couldn’t afford to throw out perfectly good clothing. Especially not…not now.

A few days. He just…he needed a few days to get his head on straight. He would just lay low for a while, until some of the media frenzy died down.

\--

 Two days later, an army doctor worriedly hung up after getting voicemail for the fifth time in a row.

_“This is John Watson. I’m not able to reach the phone right now, being at work or – well, at the Work – please leave a name, number and message and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”_

For a long moment, he stared at his phone and then his hand tightened around it. Right. Enough was enough. If John wanted to play it that way, he’d just have to play dirty.

\--

Mike Stamford almost threw his stapler at his office door when the knock sounded.

_Knock-knock-kn-knock._

He thought he’d made it clear to building security that he _wasn’t_ talking to reporters or curious fans or _anyone_ about the fact that he had known the great – fake (as if) – detective. No one should have gotten to his door, but a few too enterprising reporters had managed to find him anyway.

To be honest, he was probably recognized more as someone who had stood by John Watson’s side at the funeral than as a tolerated acquaintance of Sherlock Holmes, but it wasn’t hard to leap from John Watson’s friend to _potential source of information_. With John quite effectively avoiding _everyone_ , Mike – and Mrs. Hudson, he was fairly certain – was fielding a lot more questions than he wanted to answer.

_Knock-knock-kn-knock._

“I told you I’m not answering your questions! Go away!”

“Open the damn door, Stamford! I don’t have time for this!”

Mike had never moved quite that fast before in his life. When he wrenched open the door, he was met with a very frustrated looking Bill Murray, fist raised to knock again.

“Where the bloody hell is John?”

Some of the weight of worry lifted from Mike’s shoulders. Ever since John had joined the military, there had been a distance between the two of them that nothing seemed able to breach. They had still been friendly, but there wasn’t much in common in their lives after graduation. Mike had honestly been surprised that John had put in the effort to reconnect with him after he was shot and sent home. They had had little in common any more than a shared dorm in university and old acquaintances neither of them saw anymore. But he had, and Mike knew from his stories it had at least some small reason to do with the man before him.

Bill Murray had poked and prodded at his squad mate and his friend, refusing to give up no matter how much it might have seemed that John himself had. And Bill Murray had done the one other thing for which Mike would be forever grateful.

It hadn’t been coincidence that the civilian doctor had taken his lunch break in the park that day John Watson came limping by.

_“He’ll be looking for distraction. For something to spark excitement again. Even if you just catch his interest for a few minutes…that might be all it takes. John’s always spoken well of you. Just try?”_

“When did you get back?” he blurted, still trying to catch up. Murray sighed.

“Four days ago. I missed the funeral, and John isn’t answering his mobile. Tell me you know where he is.”

Stepping back – belatedly remembering his manners – Mike ushered the military doctor into his office. “Sadly, no. He won’t answer me either. His landlady said he needed space after the funeral.”

Bill’s jaw clenched and he blew out a long slow breath, eyes shut. When he opened them again, Mike recognized the same look John got right before he went to pull Sherlock out of whatever stupidity the consulting detective had gotten himself into without John there to be the voice of reason.

“Alright. What else happened, then? John wouldn’t retreat like this if it was just a suicide.”

Mike sighed. He did not want to talk about this. The memory of John’s stoic façade crumbling once he had reached the dubious safety of Mike’s small house was far too recent to be anything but sharply painful.

_“I couldn’t…221 isn’t…he…God, Mike, why did he have to do that?”_

Gesturing at a chair, he shuffled over to his desk chair and dropped more than sat in it. “Make yourself comfortable. This will take a while.”

\--

John had moved through the last five days on autopilot. He would have been astonished he had remembered to eat and bathe had he the energy for such things at the moment. As it was, he was operating at half-capacity right now, pure survival instinct driving him to take at least marginal care of himself. Simply because Sher- because _he_ had been such a massive, selfish, self-absorbed twit as to take his own life over what they BOTH knew were lies didn't mean John would follow the man into death.

No, he was far too confused and angry for that.

They _had_ been lies. He knew that. Everyone with a brain knew that. Anyone who had _met_ the man knew that. John didn't understand how any of those lies could stand up to any close sort of scrutiny, but he supposed that just went to show - get people angry enough at you, and they don't _care_ if you were innocent or not.

And all those angry people had been so ready to believe Moriarty's lies, so ready to point fingers and feel vindicated. It had driven John's best friend to the roof of St. Bart's and over and John _couldn't get that image out of his head._

 _"Why_?" he implored of the chair opposite him, sitting empty, always empty now. Its owner buried and gone. What had that solved? Why had he done it? None of it made sense. "You idiot, _why?_ It never would have stood up in court, no matter what pull Moriarty had. He couldn't have twisted the truth that much." He was starting to get angry now, his confusion and grief morphing into a feeling he was far too familiar with in relation to his flat mate. Former flat mate.

_Flailing black trailing a pale streak..._

_The sickening_ crack-thud _of a body hitting pavement at speed, audible even though John_ knew _he was too far away to hear it…_

"Why didn't you let me help you? Why couldn't you _listen_ for once? Why did you _lie_ to me? Nothing you said that first night, _none of it_ was faked. I know that. You kno-knew that!!"

John wasn't aware of when he'd gotten to his feet, but he was there now, standing in the small space between the chairs, fists clenched, feet bare, shouting at an inanimate object because the true target of his anger could no longer hear him. It was pathetic, but that only made him angrier.

_Blood seeping from a head wound far too familiar to the doctor in John..._

_Eyes once sharp and clear now dead and sightless, no spark of life, of_ anything…

"Taking your life solved nothing! It only _vindicated_ Moriarty and his twisted rumor campaign! You were too bloody competitive to let anyone win anything, even if it was the last word, so _why_ , why did you let Moriarty win this?!"

Much later, John would recall this moment, and be thankful that he hadn't thrown something of more value. Right then, all he could feel was the need to _break_ something, to find some physical outlet for his grief and anger. The ceramic mug he threw at Sherlock's chair barely skimmed the top edge - where the detective had so often slouched in a bad mood between cases - and crashed into the far wall with an almighty _bang_ , shattering into pieces.

Downstairs, Mrs. Hudson's voice rose in surprised alarm, and much younger feet than hers pounded up the stairs, closely following a familiar voice shouting his name.

"JOHN?"  
  
\--

Bill Murray had never been one to avoid a confrontation in his life, but he found himself strangely reluctant to knock on the door of 221 Baker St. He'd barely been back in the country on his leave before the newspapers exploded with the news that Sherlock Holmes was a fake, and hardly a day later, that the fake detective had committed suicide by jumping from the roof of St. Bart's. Bill had never felt more useless in his life, stuck on base on a technicality for three days after that. He wasn't sure who had messed up his paperwork, but if Bill ever found them, they'd _regret it._ But he had not been able to find John even when he _did_ get off base. His friend had obviously gone to Holmes' funeral, but from there, Bill hadn't been able to find him. It was entirely likely John had gone to ground somewhere that only he and the detective knew about to avoid the press for a few days to lick his wounds. ( _"He took to the idea of code words a little too readily, Bill. Would you believe he won't just_ tell _me what they mean? I had to learn the code words for_ duck _by getting things chucked at my head until I made the connection!)_ Holmes, by John's account, would have made quite the tactician if he'd been able to stomach Army discipline.

Bill had only met the man once, over a rather unforgettable Skype conversation with John where the detective had come bursting into the flat and dragged John out on some sort of case with barely a pause to explain anything. (Bill still suspected the man had only paused because he could not physically pull John away from his chair when the shorter man didn't want to be moved. It had been amusing to watch him try, though.) He still couldn't see how the sharp-eyed, too-knowing man could have been a fake. It didn't really make sense.  
  
Whatever was true, though, he knew _John_ wouldn't believe it, and would be devastated anyway. From what Mike had said when Bill had bullied his way into Bart’s and to Mike Stamford’s office – completely fed up with his inability to find John, and more than a little wary _(scared)_ of going by 221B and finding it empty of _all_ life - his friend had _seen_ Holmes jump. Had been the one to receive the detective's final words. It had been all Bill needed to hear to kick his own discomfort fully to the curb. He’d bitten the bullet – to use a horribly trite cliché – and flagged down a taxi to take him to Baker Street, thoughts of John, alone in that flat, and hyper-focusing on every moment of that day as he had on missions gone wrong in Afghanistan, flashing through his head.

The bastard had made John his note.

It had to be eating Bill’s friend. And even if John hadn't returned to 221 yet, he could at least let Mrs. Hudson know he'd stopped by. Maybe she'd agree to call him when John surfaced again -

"Are you looking for someone?"

Bill did not jump. But it was a close call. He turned, lecturing his battle ready reflexes that _he was in bloody London, not Afghanistan_ , he met the weary, wary eyes of an older woman who could only be the landlady he'd just been thinking of.

"Ah, yes, actually. My friend lives here, and I wanted to come-" Bill sighed. "Well, give him a shoulder to lean on. It's too soon for comfort yet." He offered Mrs. Hudson a small nod. "I'm Bill Murray. Maybe John's mentioned me?"

The wariness disappeared off of her face as if it hadn't been there in the first place. "Oh, dearie," she said, relief lightening her expression. "I'm sure John would be happy to see you. Goodness knows he needs a friendly face after...everything." With a fluttering of hands, she opened the door to the flat and ushered him in, still talking. "He's not been himself, not that any of us have, since Sher-lock-" her voice broke on the name, but she continued gamely on. "Well, and that's only natural, isn't it? I don't think the poor boy's left the flat since he came back after the funeral. You go right on up. I'll make you a cuppa."

Bill was about to protest that it wasn't necessary - he knew John. As soon as he got the man talking, he wouldn't want to stop, and he wouldn't want any more witnesses to his grief than necessary. - when the sound of shouting reached both their ears, followed closely by the sound of breaking crockery from the upstairs flat. Mrs. Hudson let out a startled yelp, hands flying to her mouth and Bill was moving before he'd thought anything through, heart pounding in his throat. Holmes had made enemies with his cases, and John had been caught in the crossfire a couple of times. If someone had come here, looking to get revenge, the detective being dead already would hardly stop them from taking out their anger on John.

"JOHN?!" he yelled, even as he took the stairs two at a time.

  
\--

When Bill Murray and John Watson finally stood in the same room, in the same country again, after nearly three years apart, neither could claim to be the most surprised. John stared at a friend he had honestly forgotten was due on leave soon, and Bill stared at a man doing battle with nothing more substantial than his own grief and anger at a dead man.

The shock caused John to huff a half-amused laugh and it reassured Bill that his friend wasn't as lost to grief as he had feared he'd be.

They could work out the rest together.

 

\--

Bill smiled grimly as he watched John finally lose the battle to keep his eyes open. It had been hard walking the line between subtly encouraging John to let go a bit and release the feelings he’d been bottling up and a not-so-subtly trying to get him to sleep.

It was an old trick, one they’d both used on those under their care before. Get the patient annoyed enough about your secondary objective and the first was accomplished with hardly any trouble at all. It spoke to just how hard John was taking Holmes’ death that he didn’t recognize it. Bill was hoping – with probably too much optimism – that the trend would continue when John woke up.

More likely was that John would have a screaming fit at _Bill_ this time, not at the late detective’s chair. And while that would also be therapeutic for John, it would be hell on everyone’s ears. Mrs. Hudson would probably appreciate a bit of quiet, he was sure. It hadn’t been an easy week for either of the remaining occupants of 221 Baker Street.

John shifted in his chair, face twitching in the throes of a dream, and one arm fell off of the arm rest to land heavily in his lap. Bill froze, hardly daring to breath until John settled again, breathing still even and deep.

“Bloody hell,” he whispered, and ran a hand over his face. He had not expected to come home to the aftermath of a war, however small it had been. He’d wanted to spend some time decompressing with a friend who had been there in Afghanistan, who knew what Bill was going through, and to hear about the latest crazy happenings in London, courtesy of his friend’s crazy flatmate, maybe even finally meet the man in person. John hadn’t been able to decide if Bill was going to punch Sherlock or think he was as brilliant as John did.

They’d _both_ been looking forward to finding out. Holmes’ had likely not thought anything about it. As John said often, the man was brilliant, but not the best with human interaction. He likely hadn’t seen the point in spending time with his flatmate’s friend, but Bill had wanted to meet the person who had dragged John back to the realm of the living with such ease. The last time Bill had spoken to John – before John met Holmes, before he came alive again – his friend had been listless, uninterested in his life and barely in anyone else’s. It had been beyond maddening, knowing that John was in London, wounded more in mind than in body, and alone, while Bill was stuck in Afghanistan, unable to do more than hope that John would pick up the Skype calls he made whenever he got the chance, that he wouldn’t be calling an empty room because John had taken the only way out he felt he had, the one Bill hadn’t had the heart – or the proof, not outright, John had never been that clumsy – to take from him.

And now, Bill was afraid the cycle would start again, and he wasn’t sure John was going to able to recover from losing such an important part of his life here in London.

Bill felt his own gaze drawn to the empty arm chair across from John. It seemed as good a place as any to direct his glare, in the absence of the proper recipient.

“You bloody bastard,” he whispered, low and fierce, at the chair. “Did you even think about what your suicide was going to do to John? You knew how bad he was before you met. _How_ could you throw him back into that?”

John’s voice, exhausted and frustrated, echoed through Bill’s memory. A video message sent not long after what Bill only later learned was John’s abduction and forced service as a suicide bomber.

 _“He doesn’t think he’s capable of emotion. Calls himself a high functioning sociopath. But – it doesn’t fit, Bill. I’m hardly a psychologist, but I – this latest case…I almost believed him for a while. But after what happened two days ago, I just can’t. No sociopath would have reacted like he did to thinking I was Moriarty; that I’d played him, betrayed him like that. He feels. He_ cares _. Sherlock…he hides it so well he’s convinced himself, I think. I almost don’t want to know what happened to him to cause that kind of retreat.”_

Bill shook his head, banishing the memory, looking back at John’s exhausted form sprawled in the chair. He stood and carefully laid out a blanket taken from the sofa over his friend. It would be better for John to sleep in a bed, but there was no way Bill could get him there without waking John in the process. The blanket would have to do.

Throwing a last glare at the empty chair, Bill turned for the stairs. He’d keep Mrs. Hudson company while John slept. He needed to know a bit more about what had gone on last week, and with John out for at least a couple hours, Mrs. Hudson was his best bet.

“You may not have been a sociopath,” Bill murmured as he passed the threshold of the doorway, refusing to turn around to look again at a room that only contained one man. In some way, it felt as if he would lose points in some unknown game if he did, “but you were never his friend. Not if you could just throw him back to this without a thought.”

\--

John woke slowly, his head pounding and his joints and muscles stiff. There were faint sounds coming from somewhere beyond whatever room he was in, and he thought he recognized the voice that didn’t belong to Mrs. Hudson, but couldn’t be sure. For a moment, his disoriented brain had him convinced that the baritone rumble was Sherlock’s voice, but no.

No. That could never be again.

With a groan, John scrubbed one hand over his face, not feeling up to opening his eyes yet. Just what had –

_“JOHN!!”_

_With a start, John turned, hands that had already been  half-way to forming fists closing the rest of the way and nearly lost his footing as he saw who had come barreling up the stairs at his outburst._

_Worried brown eyes in a dark face. Military short haircut and civilian clothing that had obviously not been worn in at least six months – more like eight, since his last leave – and_

Oh, God, stop it! _He wasn’t the one who picked up the little things like that. Sher-his – he had…_

_“Bill?”_

_Tension was slowly melting off of the other man as no obvious enemies presented themselves._

_“All right?”_

_John couldn’t help the laugh that came out, bitter and sharp and amused despite everything. “No. No, I’m not.”_

_Bill shrugged acceptance, a rueful smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah, I guess you’re not.”_

Right. Bill was here.

“-appreciate the help, Mrs. Hudson, but I’ve got it from here. Really. John’ll-“

Without bothering to move – he wasn’t exactly comfortable, but he was warm. Everything had seemed to freeze when Sherlock had jumped off the roof at Bart’s, so this was a welcome change, even if it _was_ just as imaginary as his limp. – John raised his voice to be heard on the landing.

“-demand an explanation of what the hell you were doing, Murray, pulling med-school tricks on me.”

There was a squeak John knew had to be Mrs. Hudson, and an amused laugh from Bill. When he opened his eyes, Mrs. Hudson was leaning down slightly to peer into his eyes.

“Are you feeling any better, John?” she asked quietly, sounding as if she believed he was suffering a hangover, her words quiet and hushed and careful.

John sat up, reluctantly pushing the blanket down and nodded at her. “I’m…okay.”

Bill’s skeptical expression over Mrs. Hudson’s shoulder was welcome and infuriating at the same time. John sent a quick glare his way as Mrs. Hudson turned away, fusing with the blanket he’d pushed off of himself as he sat up.

“You need fluids and a good meal, in that order, preferably,” Bill said, undeterred by his glare. “I don’t know where you managed to disappear to, but I doubt it had a usable kitchen.”

John could see Mrs. Hudson’s alarm and sighed. “I was fine. No, it didn’t have a kitchen, but protein bars and water bottles will do in a pinch. I’m _fine._ ”

This time, he was treated to a two-part skeptical look. Mrs. Hudson’s was somehow more piercing than Bill’s. He shook his head and got to his feet, steeling himself to walk past Sherlock’s chair to pick up his mess. However much of an idiot he had been – a quick glance outside showed only a few hours had passed – this afternoon, it didn’t mean he had to make Mrs. Hudson deal with his own poor coping mechanisms.

Mrs. Hudson’s hand on his chest stopped him cold. He stared at her, slightly startled. She rarely touched him, or anyone. For all her hovering, she was not a very tactile woman.

“You sit, John Watson,” she said, her voice firm and uncompromising. “I’m sure I don’t know where you went… _then_ , but you obviously haven’t eaten properly. Ah-ah!” she said, as he opened his mouth to protest. “No. You sit, and visit with your friend and I’ll make us all something to eat.” When John still didn’t move, she pushed gently against his chest and he finally took her hint and sat back down. He’d get the cup after she went downstairs.

“Yes’m,” he said, giving her a sheepish grin. Mrs. Hudson nodded sharply and turned to Bill, giving him a twin of the firm look she had just unleashed on John. He grinned, raised his hands in surrender, and sat on the couch without protest.

“Coward,” John mouthed at him.

Bill grinned, wide and amused. “Pot, kettle,” he mouthed back.

John made a face back at him, and for a moment everything was fine.  He was just visiting with Bill, Mrs. Hudson was going to bring them some of her excellent food and Sherlock –

John froze and his gaze was drawn back to the chair that had been the focus of his ranting earlier. It sat, still and empty and cold, as it ever would now. John could certainly not bring himself to sit in it.

With a sigh, he rubbed a hand across his face. This wasn’t going to work. He’d thought that with a few days of grace in one of Sherlock’s hidden safe-houses around London, he’d be okay. That he could stick out the month or so more he could afford of Baker Street, just until he found something else.

But it was just too much. _Sherlock_ had been too much, and he had left too large an imprint on John’s life. Now that he was gone…well, a fresh start was going to require as clean a break with this flat as he could get.

He couldn’t quite make himself resolve to break off contact with Mrs. Hudson or Lestrade, or even Mike.

Those friendships were going to be all that kept him going; he was aware enough of his own failings when dealing with grief and life changes to know that.

So. A clean break, or as close to it as he could manage.

It would start with visiting Sherlock’s grave. He hadn’t managed to go there, despite every effort he’d made for it. He knew that had hurt Mrs. Hudson, though she tried not to show it around him. He’d take her with him, maybe. Ask her to come with, and he’d have no good reason to back out of it.

It would end, though, somewhere, _anywhere_ but at 221B Baker Street.

 


	2. Chapter 2

\--

Bill tried very hard not to give into the urge to call John and demand an update. He knew perfectly well where his friend was – or was still going to, given traffic this morning – and bothering him for a useless request for information was a bad idea all around. John had promised to go with Mrs. Hudson to visit Holmes’ grave and to meet with Bill for some lunch afterwards.

They’d gotten the verbal promise out of him for both appointments. He would show up. John Watson did not break his word if he could ever help it.

But Bill wasn’t going to be here much longer, and John needed a support network that did not include people also grieving over the consulting detective. It wasn’t much, but it was all Bill could provide his friend.

So he heaved a deep breath and raised his hand to rap sharply on the door to the small flat he had come to, hoping that Sarah had been right and her boss was at home today.

That was a never a sure thing, with Mary Morstan. The woman was a freelance reporter well-known for her meticulously researched and tightly written stories. Bill had been hoping to find something about the Holmes’ scandal that Mary had written, knowing she would have given as balanced an account as _could_ be had, but there had been nothing. The last thing she had written had been on James Moriarty’s surprise sentencing, and that had been much shorter and drier than her usual offerings. Bill hadn’t had a chance to question her on it, but he was wishing he _had_ now. It wasn’t like Mary would have refused to answer him. They’d known each other for nearly three decades, ever since they’d met in primary school, and they had been practically inseparable since. Through thick and thin – falling in and out of love (never with each other), getting in and out of trouble, finding the careers that called to them on the most basic of levels, supporting the other’s choices without question, they were the siblings neither of them truly had. The only other friendship Bill had that rivaled the depth of the one he shared with Mary was the one he had with John.

The door opened then, and curious but distracted blue eyes peeked out at him, semi-obscured by the blonde bangs that hung – disordered – into her face. “Yes? I’m afraid I’m terribly busy at the – Bill!”

The door flew open then, to its widest extent, and Mary grabbed his arm, dragging him into her flat. Bill laughed, and let her manhandle him. “Hello, Mary. How’s things?”

The door thumped shut with a final sounding click and Mary propped her fists on her hips, eyeing him critically.

“I should be asking _you_ that.” Her sharp eyes dragged up and down his form, and Bill let her, smiling amusedly. “Your leave only started about a week ago. What _have_ you been doing to look so worn down still, Bill Murray? Honestly, you’re a doctor! I’d think you know how to take care of yourself!”

Before he could answer, she grabbed his elbow and towed him into her sitting room, firmly shoving him at the couch and disappearing to her kitchen to retrieve another mug, into which she poured a generous portion of the tea she had already brewed and waiting on her desk.

“Here,” she said, passing the cup to him, not bothering with sugar or cream. Bill fought a smile. The only people who seemed to remember he liked his tea plain were John and Mary. Everyone else tried to add something to it, insisting he couldn’t _really_ want _just_ tea. She waited, watching with a hawk’s intensity while he drank. Only after he had drained half the cup did she speak again. “I didn’t think you’d be by this time, Bill. Honestly, I would have preferred it. You should be with your friend.”

Bill spluttered. “What – how did you – I didn’t say anything about John!”

Mary favored him with an arch look. It was her _Please-I’m-a-journalist-they-_ pay­- _me-to-notice-these-things_ look. Bill sighed and Mary snorted.

“You practically bleed loyalty, Bill. I know your friend was Holmes’ partner. Everyone I’ve spoken to confirms they were close.” She leaned forward, expression intent. “So why _aren’t_ you with Dr. Watson right now?”

Bill set down his tea, and leaned forward to match his long-time friend. “Because I need a favor.” He met her blue eyes squarely with his own steady brown. “Do you know much about the Holmes’ affair?”

Mary _hmmed_ low in her throat, eyes sliding half-closed as she pulled up her memory of recent events. “It started shortly after the Moriarty upset. Claims that Holmes wasn’t as clever as he claimed, that he was orchestrating events to support his own reputation. There were rumors that he was arrested in collusion with the American ambassador’s children’s kidnapping. He escaped – with your Dr. Watson, I believe, though I don’t know why he would have been arrested as well. And some seven-to-ten hours later, Holmes leapt to his death from the roof of St. Bart’s. The funeral was held two days later, and Watson hasn’t been seen or heard from since.”

“As far as I know, that’s pretty much the sequence. John chinned the Chief Superintendent, from what Mike told me. He went to ground somewhere for about four days, from what Mike and I figure and he turned up at Baker Street again sometime late yesterday afternoon, according to his landlady.”

Mary nodded, her eyes still at half-mast as she turned her attention back to Bill. It was her thinking expression, one Bill had learned to respect very early on in their friendship. It usually preceded one of her better insights, whether into the people around them or into Bill himself, which was not always welcome or comfortable.

He wasn’t sure what this one would be, so he headed her off at the pass. “I’d appreciate it if you would look in on John from time to time while I’m deployed,” he stated, voice even and bland. “He’s not got many friends that aren’t connected to Holmes’ in some way, and his sister is hardly a good source of support. I’ll be in Afghanistan again by the end of next week and he needs someone…” Bill shrugged. “Well, someone as far from Holmes as I can find.”

Mary’s eyes were open all the way now, bright and a little exasperated. “Do you even need to ask me?” She left her chair and sat next to him on the couch, putting an arm around his shoulders and leaning her head against his. “I’m honored you trust me with your friend. I’ve heard so much about him from you.” A soft sigh brushed air over Bill’s cheek. “I just wish we were meeting in better circumstances.”

Bill slid his own arm around her waist, turning to bury his head briefly in the junction of her neck and shoulder. He squeezed tightly once before letting go and leaning back. “Yeah,” he told her, grinning ruefully. “I wish that too.”

\--

John had never been much for decorating his own place, but right now it _showed._ He excused the lack of personal touches with the thought that it wasn’t really _his place_ , just a low-cost rental flat, large enough for him and maybe a guest if they didn’t mind sleeping on the lie-low that came with the flat.

He really couldn’t care less. It’s a place to be: to sleep and eat and shower. That’s all he needs.

With a sigh, John went back to unpacking the last few boxes he hadn’t gotten to while Bill had been around to help. More often than not, the two of them had gotten sidetracked by memories. Either John’s – of good times in Afghanistan or with Sherlock here in London – or Bill’s – of Afghanistan and crazy shenanigans while on leave with John. It had been a good distraction, even if he still slipped into a melancholy mood more often than he didn’t. Besides, he was the only one who was going to really be seeing the inside of this flat, who cared if he didn’t have all of his kitchen supplies unpacked quite yet, or that he was unpacking his clothes by the simple expedient of a day and an outfit at a time?

He was in the middle of trying to care about where he put his few mugs and glasses when the knock sounded on his door.

Brow furrowed – Greg wasn’t coming by until later in the week, Mike had exams to grade and it certainly wasn’t Mrs. Hudson – John cautiously crept to the door. Peering through the peep hole, he blinked at the blonde woman who stood on the other side, bright red jacket pulled close against the chill wind.

For a moment, John was at a loss as to what this woman might be doing seeking _him_ out – she didn’t look like a reporter, but that was hardly a guarantee, and she didn’t look like anyone he knew – but Bill’s words came back to him.

 _“You’re gonna need some help, John. Mary’s great at doing that. You’ll love her. No, don’t give me that look! We both know how good you_ aren’t _at coping and your friends are too close to really help. I’ll be in Afghanistan. Just…John, let me do_ something _to support you, even if it isn’t_ me _doing it.”_

With a sigh – he’d not really believed Bill had enlisted the help of his childhood friend – John opened his door.

“Yes? What can I do for you?”

That earned him a polite smile, but there was steel in her gaze. “Dr. Watson. Kindly do me the favor of not patronizing me, and I won’t do the same to you. We both know why Bill asked me to come here.”

John bristled slightly, but couldn’t come up with the energy to be truly offended by her tone. He _had_ been slightly patronizing by pretending not to know who she had to be. “I’m fine, Miss Morstan. You really needn’t have come,” he said stiffly.

Mary raised a hand to hide a smile, arching her eyebrows at him. “Oh, I’m sure you are. And since you’re so fine, you won’t mind if I come in and see for myself how fine you are, will you?” When John didn’t move, blinking in slight astonishment at her, her smile obtained an artfully hurt edge. “Oh, well, if you _want_ to keep a girl waiting on your front step in this cold-”

John felt a smile tug his lips into a small curve even as he shook his head. “You’re Bill’s friend alright. That’s _his_ sense of humor.”

Mary _beamed_ at him. “What’s to say it wasn’t _mine_ in the first place, Dr. Watson?”

John was never sure just what it was that made him let her in. It might have been pure curiosity about what she would do next. Mary Morstan was bright and challenging and not the least intimidated by his brooding silences or raging temper.

He hated to admit it, but Bill had been right. It was hard _not_ to love Mary Morstan.

\--

John had just pulled the casserole out of the oven when the knock sounded on the door. Since he had been expecting it for the past ten minutes, he didn’t bother going to answer it. He’d also managed to mostly forget _why_ this night was happening, and he wanted to keep up the illusion as long as he could.

“It’s open!” he shouted over his shoulder, hip-checking the oven door closed as he discarded the oven mitts to the side. The casserole steamed gently and it smelled – even if he did say so himself – quite heavenly. He’d gotten better at this cooking thing since Mary had started giving him tips and recipes.

“Oh,” the woman herself breathed, coming into the kitchen, breathing deeply through her nose. “You made the casserole!” Her blue eyes twinkled merrily. “And nothing is burned this time!”

John made a face at her, unable to hold back the smile. “That was only a few times, thank you very much.”

Mary laughed, musical and light. “True enough, but when you _do_ burn things, you do so spectacularly.”

John took down two bowls from the cabinets and started dishing out the casserole. “Keep it up, and you won’t get any,” he threatened, not really serious at all. Mary grinned at him, and raised her hands in surrender.

“Of course not, you are a perfect cook, John. Shame on me for implying otherwise.”

John grinned as he handed her portion to her and they both eschewed the kitchen table to sit more comfortably in the living room. “So,” John said, oddly satisfied as Mary dug into his casserole and sighed in delight at the taste. “Have you heard back from Bill yet?”

Blue eyes blinked over at him, and she swallowed before asking curiously. “You haven’t?”

John laughed as he watched her. “I was called in to cover for the A&E for the last week. I’ve barely had time to readjust to being awake during the DAY, let alone catch Bill when he’s on Skype.”

Mary blinked, and then nodded. “Right. I knew that.” She shook her head and John tried not to grin too obviously. He’d only tell her this if he was sure she was in an excellent mood, but she was adorable just coming up from one of her researching sprees for her articles. Her mind only mostly engaging with the rest of the world again, and still at least a third of it working away on how to phrase things and how to fit all of her pieces together to form the puzzle that would become her article.

He’d been a bit surprised that he’d come to like Mary so much – given his feelings for the rest of the press corps of London. – but she was easy to like.

Very, very easy to like.

\--

Mary gave her mind a mental kick in the metaphorical rear and brought herself back to the task she had come here for tonight. She could see that John had done as she had asked, and gotten out the box with Holmes’ things in it. What John could bear to keep anyway, which wasn’t much. He’d been pretty much ignoring the box since she had gotten here, but Mary had seen him glance at it from time to time, an uncertain frown on his face. Her heart hurt for him, but this was for the best.

She’d been watching him get better each day after her first face-to-face meeting with him, and then stagnate, unable to move forward because he would not let go of the past.

She’d had enough, and she was nearly positive John had had enough. He just needed a push to move forward. To talk about the things he had loved best about his friend, and the times he had cherished memories of. It would be hard, oh, God, would it be hard, on so many levels, but it would help John to move over the barrier he’d erected for himself. Mary could only be supportive of that. And she’d sworn to stand with John, not only to Bill, and to John, but to herself too.

Mary did find it amusing that she and Ella had both been telling John the same things for months now, though. It had been the unknowing combination of their advice that had made John finally cave to their suggestions and agree to do this.

“He should be coming home for the final time in three months. He didn’t want to say for certain, because-”

“-he doesn’t want to jinx it,” John finished for her, grinning slightly. “I remember the feeling.”

Mary beamed. “Well, hopefully he’ll be back for good in three months and you two can hash it all out then.”

“And you will be where, then?” John raised his eyebrows at her and Mary flapped a hand at him.

“As if I’ll get a word in edgewise while you two catch up on a year and a half in two days? Maybe three? As if you’d never spoken over Skype at all. Please. I’ll be enjoying my testosterone free days by treating myself to hot tea, a good book or two and _silence_ in my _own_ flat.”

John burst out laughing, unable to hold it back and Mary felt her smile soften, something warm and quite comfortable settling in her chest at the sight.

John Watson was really quite easy to like.

Really, truly very easy to like.

\--

“Bill!”

Looking up from where he had been double-checking his bags – something _always_ managed to come undone during long flights, he swore there were gremlins or something in the planes – Bill beamed as he saw John waving at him, a large grin on his own face. Quickly re-zipping the small pocket that had gotten opened, he stood back up, swung the pack to his shoulder and strode out to meet his friend.

“John!” Bill said, still grinning widely as he clasped hands with the shorter man. “ _You_ are looking well, mate.”

“Yeah, well, it’s not wise to turn down Mary’s advice on clothing. Or food. Or-”

Laughing, Bill completed the litany. “-driving conditions. Or politics. Or _anything_ in the history of _ever_ because-”

“-she is a woman and therefore knows much better than all you-”

“-testosterone-ridden males!”

They nearly fell over each other laughing, and they only drew indulgent smiles from the staff and slightly exasperated but tolerant glances from fellow travelers forced to detour around them. By the time they got themselves back together, after grabbing a taxi back to John’s flat and a bite to eat on the way, they had been speaking over and around and at each other for nearly an hour.

And Bill had noticed one very, very crucial common thread.

With a knowing grin, Bill set his drink down on the coffee table and met John’s suddenly slightly wary gaze. “So, John,” he began, drawling and low. “You seem quite taken with Mary. She’s almost all you’ve spoken about.”

John blinked, opened his mouth, closed it again, blinked once more, and then huffed a laugh.

“Yeah. Yeah, I s’pose I have, haven’t I?” Bill watched as a small, reminiscent grin spread on his friend’s face and tried to stifle his laughter. Oh, but Johnny-boy had fallen _hard_ , hadn’t he?

John seemed to realize he had drifted from their conversation and sat up straighter in response, but Bill’s knowing grin relaxed him again.

“She’s really quite…quite lovely, Bill. Mary is easy to like.”

“She’s always been,” Bill acknowledged. John nodded, not looking surprised at all.

“I imagine so.”

Bill raised an eyebrow at John.

John blinked back at him, expression carefully blank.

They maintained that stalemate for precisely fifteen more seconds before they collapsed into laughter.

He’d rib John about it later – this was _far too good_ to pass up any teasing opportunities – but for now, he’d just _be._

He was home. He was safe.

John was healing.

Mary looked set to have her feelings for John – tentatively confessed over Skype to Bill – more than enthusiastically returned.

Life was good.

\--

If it were possible to kill an inanimate object, he would have done so long before this infernal contraption masquerading as a computer had _finally_ managed to make the connection to the web page he desired.

The only good thing about the abysmally slow connection was the fact that the _rest_ of the machine was old enough that no one would bother hacking it or tracing it or defending against it, because it was so obviously useless.

Well, maybe not _completely_ , but very nearly there. And if he hadn’t had the final strands of Moriarty’s web to plot how to undo – he was _so close_ , he could _taste_ his victory – he might have shot the thing.

With a huff of irritation, he clicked through the final link, curious despite himself at the new posts that loaded themselves.

Last he had seen, John had left a single text post of support and not touched his blog since. He’d checked, whenever he had the time or the inclination, and nothing had shown up. But it seemed in the past…seven months, John had resurrected his blog.

Had it really been over seven months since he had last checked?

Hm. Well, no matter. John’s nearly mindless drivel about his daily life would provide a nice bit of white noise so he could focus on the important things –

Who was Mary? John was his usual stolid and supporting self, setting out on his chosen path, defending his comrades with military staunchness, but this new commentator…

Who was she? The name was not familiar, and he knew all of John’s acquaintances and friends, so she had not been around before he left. He would have noticed another –

Oh.

Well.

John was truly moving on then, not just playing at it, if he’d found another insipid girlfriend to carry on with.

Sherlock Holmes shut the laptop without bothering to exit out of the screen, steadfastly ignoring the twisting feeling in his gut to focus on his case.

The sooner the case was done, the sooner he could return to London.

 


	3. Chapter 3

A disdainful eye swept over the flat as Sherlock entered, sniffing haughtily.

“Well, that was…distressingly easy to pick. Really, John.”

There was no answer, as Sherlock had known there wouldn’t be. John wasn’t off shift yet, of course he wasn’t home.

A quick glance over the rest of the flat was just as depressingly revealing.

 _Really_ , had the man learned nothing from him? There were at least five ways into this flat without being obvious about it and very little in the way of objects that could provide useful weapons in a pinch and –

 _Ugh._ Hopefully John hadn’t forgotten their code words as well. It would be beyond infuriating if he had to retrain John to respond to those in the appropriate manner.

Settling himself in one of the armchairs, Sherlock crossed his right leg over his left, steepled his fingers in front of his face, and waited.

John’s reaction was going to be amusing indeed. Sherlock felt the excitement thrumming in his veins, feeling the glory of the chase close at hand.

The final piece was ready to be taken. All he needed was his blogger at his side again and the Game would finally be won.

\--

John stifled a yawn as he trudged up the steps to his flat. Not that he _wanted_ people to be injured, but it had been a _horrendously_ slow day at the A &E. The most interesting thing had been when a man had come in with a dinner fork embedded in his forearm, courtesy of his hacked off girlfriend after she caught him cheating with another woman.

John just hoped she’d chosen the fork because it wasn’t as likely to cut as deeply as the knife would have done, and not because the fork was closer, as John suspected was actually the case.

But at any rate, it wasn’t his problem.

At least he could look forward to a good night out with Mary. She’d finally gotten her latest piece done, and had finally answered John’s repeated demands that she leave her flat to eat food that had not been sitting around awaiting her attention for who knew how long.

A fond smile curved his lips and he shook his head. Really, Mary could be almost startlingly like Sherlock sometimes, considering she had never met the man. At least Mary, though, could be trusted to eat on a regular basis even in the throes of her work, unlike Sherlock.

The _quality_ of that food, however, could never be guaranteed.

John fumbled his key out of his pocket, still yawning a bit, and startled when he bumped his door and it swung slightly open.

Freezing to the spot, John felt any lethargy left over from the long, boring day evaporate, adrenaline surging through him.

He didn’t have much in the way of possessions for someone to rob, but if this was something else – a mugging, maybe, or a revenge attempt – he needed to be careful.

Even if it was just a robbery, if the thief was still in there, and inclined to violence before getting caught…

John cursed the fact that he had no ready weapon available and hoped the thief was either gone or deeper into the flat. He’d left his cane by the door last week and never bothered to put it up. He’d rarely needed to use it, except for directly after the funeral, but it provided a good visual cue for his coworkers that he was in a bad mood and not inclined to talk about it.

Last week had been one of those times.

Gently easing the door open, John breathed gently through his nose, hardly daring to hope. No movement or noise greeted him as he entered his flat, and his hand closed on the handle of his cane without incident. As he turned to move further into the flat though, thus armed, a flash of dark fabric caught his eye.

His flat had very few dark colors in it. An almost subconscious desire to get as far away from 221B’s colors as he could.

There should not be black in that area.

“Hello, John.”

He was seeing things. He was absolutely not seeing Sherlock Holmes sitting in his armchair, smirking arrogantly at John.

He wasn’t because Sherlock Holmes was dead.

John’s grip on his cane tightened.

“Who are you?” he demanded, anger rising in his chest along with the sharp stab of pain thinking of Sherlock still brought him. “What the _hell_ do you think you’re playing at here?!”

One stately eyebrow rose. “Really, John, I am not _playing_ at anything. I am truly here. I am not dead, nor are you hallucinating. Do keep up.”

That _voice._ It was – that was – it _could not be his voice._

John squeezed his eyes shut, still holding the cane in front of himself, though more as a shield now than a weapon. He needed…needed to focus. There was something wrong with this situation, he just needed to find whatever it was that was wrong –

_God, Sherlock was dead and he cannot be sitting in my armchair!_

“John, really. Quit being so stubborn. We have quite a bit of work to do, to take down the last of Moriarty’s web. I do hope you still have you gun. I had to leave mine behind to get back in the country. Pesky things – customs agents – ah!”

 _You wanted me to open my eyes,_ John thought savagely, only vaguely satisfied that Sherlock had ended up sprawled on the floor in avoiding the thrown cane. _I did._

“Was it real?” he asked, voice hard as granite. He locked his knees, clenched his fists and _refused_ to back down. “Anything you said that day, anything I saw…was it real?”

Sherlock glowered at him as he struggled to his feet, tangled in his coat and partially trapped under the coffee table. “Of course not, do you really think I’d have said any of that if I hadn’t been-”

Sherlock emitted a strange squeaking sound as John lost his battle against moving and grabbed Sherlock by the collar of his coat and shirt, dragging the taller man half-way upright.

“You. Utter. Bloody. _Bastard._ ” He hissed in Sherlock’s face. “What were you PLAYING AT?”

Sherlock opened his mouth, and John shook his head. “No. No, you are not-”

“John, I can hardly answer your question if you won’t allow me to speak-”

The _smack-thud_ of John’s fist meeting Sherlock’s face resounded throughout the flat, and Sherlock spluttered, falling back to the ground as John released him, fuming.

“You’re right. You can’t answer my questions. Because you _are supposed to be dead._ ” John could feel tears threaten and he held them back by force of will. “And you won’t answer my questions, because I don’t want to hear it. This is so far beyond not good, Sherlock.” John spun on his heel and marched back towards the door. “Don’t forget to lock the door on your way out.”

“John!”

Where could he go that Sherlock couldn’t follow him? No, scratch that, where could he go that Sherlock would have _trouble_ following him, because obviously even death hadn’t stopped the giant bloody prick. He needed somewhere defensible, somewhere safe –

“John! Wait!”

Bill. Sherlock had never met Bill. Not officially. And he could call his date with Mary off from Bill’s.

“John, listen to me!”

_SLAM!!_

\--

Sherlock touched one tentative hand to his swollen cheek and stared at the door to John’s flat. With the force that John had shut it with, Sherlock almost thought the wood should still be vibrating.

What had gone wrong here? John was supposed to be overjoyed to have him back and be eager to take up the chase again.

John walking out – of his own flat! – was not something Sherlock had considered.

He needed more information, clearly.

This was not the John Watson he knew.

\--

Bill sat on the steps in front of his flat, and kept a sharp watch on the street, quietly worrying and suspecting he would be fuming in short order. When John had pounded on his door yesterday afternoon, furious and with blood on his knuckles, Bill had been startled. He’d half expected some tale about an idiot in the street bothering Mary, but no.

John had proceeded to rant about Sherlock _bloody_ Holmes and his stupid _buggering_ magic tricks and betrayal and had only quieted when Bill had succeeded in thrusting a beer into John’s hands.

The tentative question if John was sure about what he’d seen had produced a bitter laugh.

 _“I_ wish _I were hallucinating, Bill. I really, truly, do. This…”_ _John trailed off and stared morosely at his beer for several long moments._

He’d locked himself in Bill’s spare room after that, and refused to come out. Bill had heard him talking at one point. The soft tone had clued him in that it was Mary he’d called, as well as Mary herself not five minutes later, calling Bill.

_“I don’t know if he’s right about who he saw, but his neighbors remember a tall man with dark hair lurking around yesterday. Mrs. Hannelly told me she saw him again this morning, outside John’s flat. She never saw him leave.”_

_“You went looking?”_

_“When John didn’t call like he normally does before one of our dates? You bet your life I did, Bill Murray!”_

And now, standing a guard over his own apartment, watching for a man he wasn’t quite sure _wasn’t_ dead, Bill could feel the anger starting again. If Holmes _was_ alive, if he _had_ deceived everyone the way John seemed to think he _had_ –

Well, he’d be gaining another bruise to match the one John had given him, that was for sure.

With these thoughts in his head, he wasn’t really surprised when Holmes appeared in front of him, staring down impassively before he sniffed and attempted to walk around Bill.

Smirking mirthlessly, Bill slid one foot out, managed to disrupt the man’s balance enough to push him off center, and shortly had the former consulting detective backed up into the street.

“I don’t think so, mate,” he growled, standing firmly in front of his own door. “ _You_ are not welcome in my flat.”

“I do not have _time_ for this,” Holmes growled, agitation standing out almost as vivid as the bruise on his right cheek. “There is a very small window to act and I need John before the plan is complete! Move!”

Bill crossed his arms and glared right back. “No. You want someone to parrot on about how smart you are, even though you’re a right idiot. John is not going with you. You are not staying here.”

Bill could see the calculations running in Holmes’ head. The musing and the darting glances. Bill settled his stance more firmly and took one step forward, looming.

“I don’t think you understood me, Holmes. You. Are. _Not._ Welcome. In. My. Home.” His hands curled into fists and he was grimly pleased to note that Holmes backed up a step in wary concern. The immediate annoyance that crossed his face was even better. “I don’t know what you think you’re doing, or what game you think you’re playing, but you hurt a friend of mind very deeply and just ripped that wound open again without any consideration for what it did to him and you are going to leave before I call Scotland Yard down here to arrest you for trespassing and breaking and entering and any other charge I can think of, or John can.”

Holmes’ eyes narrowed and this time _he_ took the looming step forward. “You do not scare me, Mr. Murray,” he hissed. “I have faced far more intimidating men than you and prevailed. Scotland Yard couldn’t hold me even if they diverted all their abysmal energy to the task and _I will see John._ ”

“No. You won’t.”

Holmes’ eyes twitched. “You imbecile,” he breathed. “You cannot understand the importance of my case, how _large_ it is. I need John to be there.” A sly, pointed look came over his face. “John needs to be there. For himself. It’s the end of the largest case we ever worked. His chance to see the men who strapped him into a bomb vest get what they deserve. Why would you deny him that?”

Bill saw red. The only thing that stopped him from shouting was the fact that he knew there were young kids living around here, too young for school. He could not start yelling curses that they could overhear. Causing more of a scene would be the opposite of helpful.

It was the hardest thing he had ever done not to yell in that moment.

“And why was he forced into the role, Holmes? Hmm? Tell me _that_. How often have you put his life in danger, because you want to prove you’re the most clever person in the room?” He stabbed a finger in Holmes’ direction, eyes blazing. “No. More. You do not get to abuse his trust, his friendship that way. You had your chance to have John Watson stand at your side and you blew it. You deliberately threw it off that roof, and thinking you can just waltz back in here to take it back is the most _idiotic, self-centered_ thinking I have ever heard!”

Holmes’ eyes blazed with a matching fire. “And what would you know about it? I can see you’re an army doctor, like John, but oh, not quite the same. He’s more skilled than you are, isn’t he? Oh, that must have _burned_. He started later than you, has less experience, but he has more natural talent for it than you have ever had. He-”

“ENOUGH.”

Bill blinked and turned his head just enough to see Mary, face pale and blonde hair windswept, standing on the sidewalk, glaring at Holmes and Bill himself equally.

“If the two of you are _quite_ finished behaving like children intent on being the biggest bully on the block, maybe we can get something productive done?” She turned the full force of her glare on Sherlock. Bill was gratified to see the detective rock backwards ever so slightly, eyes widening a fraction at Mary’s intensity. “You are behaving exactly like a child when their favorite toy was taken away as punishment. Such behavior is NOT going to make John want to listen to you. It will push him away even more. If you are even a _fraction_ as intelligent as you claim to be, you _know_ that. And if you can’t see that this is hurting him, then you never knew John at all.”

Before Bill could properly gloat at the blinking silence Mary had just reduced Holmes to, she rounded on him.

“And you! All _you_ are doing is providing a spectacle for the neighbors by playing guard dog in front of your own flat! Really, do you think that’s what John wants?”

Bill felt heat rising to his face, and blessed his dark skin for hiding the majority of his embarrassment.

A scene was the _last_ thing John needed.

“Get inside, both of you,” Mary said sternly. “Bill, you go convince John to emerge from wherever he hid himself. Mr. Holmes, _you_ are helping me in the kitchen. If there were ever a situation in need of tea, it is this one.”

It surprised Bill a little bit, that Holmes followed Mary without a protest and didn’t even try to ditch her once inside Bill’s apartment.

Just went to show, the female of the species was _always_ the more dangerous.

Apparently Holmes was smart enough to realize _that._

\--

The explanations took time. John was not willing to listen for most of the beginning portion, and had spent a good portion of the time yelling after he _had_ been convinced to hear Holmes out. Mary had stood steadfastly between the two men, one hand on John’s arm to keep him marginally calm, and an unimpressed glare for Holmes every time the man started off on a tangent about something not relevant to the current discussion.

By the time the sun had set and come close to rising again, a tentative truce had been reached, lingering resentment set aside and a plan forged. John, Bill and Sherlock would confront Moran in his newly acquired Baker Street flat. Mary would stay behind to call in the cavalry if she didn’t receive the all clear from John or Bill within two hours. Bill was going to _treasure_ the look on Holmes’ face when John had given him a piercing look and simply nodded.

“Alright. I’m in.”

It had been as if the man couldn’t believe after all the fuss John had put up that he was just giving in. The suspicion mixed with glee had sat oddly on his face, and it only got worse as John ducked out of Mary’s light grip and got right in Holmes’ face.

“But if you cut me out of the plan this time, Sherlock, so help me, I’ll put you in that grave _myself.”_

That was the moment, Bill was positive, that Sherlock Holmes truly realized that John Watson was a man to be feared. The look only got better when Bill cheerfully offered to help and he and John had grinned wolfishly at each other.

"If I don’t get an all clear call or text from one of you in two hours, I’m calling in the police, whether you like it or not,” Mary put in firmly. She hadn’t lobbied to come along, to no one’s surprise but Holmes’. Mary knew her limits, and had never felt the need to break them like others did.

“Good enough for me,” Bill said. “Let’s go catch this Moran bastard, wherever he is.”

Sherlock inhaled sharply. “I _told you_ where he is.”

“You told us where you suspect he is. There’s a difference, Sherlock,” John pointed out.

“He’s been after me since he realized who had to be taking down the remnants of Moriarty’s organization. This is too good a chance to pass up-”

“Which is why you’ll _listen_ to me this time and not go haring off on your own-”

Bill gave Mary a quick grin and followed the other two out of his flat. This was just what they needed, especially John. With a purpose, and something he could face head-on, John always dealt better with stress that way.

Hopefully, it wouldn’t end horribly.

\--

"Put it down, Moran. The game's over. You lost."

  
Cold eyes never left Holmes, even as the sniper answered Bill, sneering and contemptuous. "Do you really think you can stop me? Before I shoot him?"

  
Bill felt a dark sort of amusement even as he sensed more than saw John moving into position across from him. Holmes' eyes darted from Moran to Bill and back, calculation clear even through the fog of a concussion. Bill rather hoped he wouldn't open his mouth and make himself an even more tempting target. He had enough work to do and he did NOT want to have to work John through the grief of losing this man for a second time. And because the universe was never that kind, Holmes opened his mouth and began to speak, struggling into a more upright position as he did so.

  
"It's patently obvious that you already know you've overextended your reach. You aren't capable of handling such a large scale operation-"

  
Four things happened in quick succession.

  
Moran shifted the aim on his gun slightly, preparing to fire.

  
Bill launched a broken pipe at the sniper aiming at Holmes, the metal spinning end over end with pinpoint precision.

  
Sherlock flung himself to the side, avoiding the likely path of the bullet.

  
John fired.  
  
\--

Later, Bill watched John and Holmes bicker about who had made the stupidest mistake of the night and who deserved the title of idiot more. Bill watched, and remembered the grief-bowed shoulders of his friend, the far away looks when John thought no one was looking. He watched and compared that man with the man he saw now, so much more _alive_ in every way that counted.

"You're both wrong," he announced into a pause in their argument. He stabbed one finger in Holmes' direction, the motion far less angry than it had been even four hours before. "YOU are an idiot for attempting _any_ of this on your own. Tonight only proved how much of one you are." He stabbed the finger again, this time in John's direction, cutting off the smirk before it could become fully seated. "YOU are an idiot for expecting himself over there to act like anything other than an idiot. Tonight _also_ proved that." He crossed his arms over his chest and glared at the pair of them. "So, clearly, the prize for Chief Idiot goes to me, for letting you both drag me along into this madness. If I _want_ to get shot at, I'll just go back to Afghanistan."  
  
Soon, all three of them were breathless with laughter, and Bill counted it a night well spent.


End file.
